Methods Of Control
by Nonverbal
Summary: A short story mainly exploring Neela’s life and relationships. S15 Spoilers. Rated T for mild profanity and drug use.
1. Chapter 1

It was past ten in the evening when Neela slammed shut the front door of her apartment. Usually she was more cautious with it when coming home late at night, wanting to avoid complaints from the neighbours, but tonight she was beyond caring. Too many things had gone to hell in the preceding twelve hours. Throwing her bag and coat onto an armchair, Neela slumped down onto the adjacent couch.

Gregory Pratt was dead, having succumbed to massive injuries after the ambulance he'd been riding had been blown up. Neela'd had her differences with Pratt in the past, but in the last few years they had become friends, particularly after sharing the pain of Michael's death. More than anything, Pratt had been one of the few doctors down at County whose opinion and competence she had trusted without question. There one instant, the next… gone. Neela had never expected to actually be missing that shit-eating grin of his.

Abby had fortunately escaped with only minor injuries, although she would be recovering for a few days. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise grim day. She was the only person Neela could confide to about anything. With Tony Gates, things were always a bit awkward, and with Dubenko, Neela preferred to keep things on a professional level.

As incredible as it seemed, Lucien seemed dead set on leaving County. In Neela's opinion, that man was County's surgical department. While Crenshaw had the technical skills, it was Lucien's eccentric leadership style and devotion to patient care that kept the place running. Patient care wasn't the only thing Lucien had a devotion to. She'd never believed that the affections Lucien had confessed to her at Abby's wedding had been simply misguided professional respect. Had the circumstances been different, Neela knew she would have been capable of returning his feelings, despite the fact that she was a resident and he an attending.

_That's right_, Neela thought to herself. _That's how pathetic you've become. You'll grab onto any source of comfort you can get. Even Brenner_. That moment with him earlier, before the day had even begun to properly fall apart, had been a moment of sheer unadulterated lust. Of course the man was handsome, and brilliant as a doctor, but Neela had heard enough on the hospital grapevine to know how morally bankrupt he was. At the time it had seemed as if she'd been taking control of the situation by grabbing onto the man, yet in retrospect she'd given Simon exactly the response he'd been shooting for.

Rising up, Neela slowly made her way into the bathroom, leaned over the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could see her eyes were moist, yet had no recollection of having cried. Holding onto that fleeting thought, Neela opened the mirrored cabinet door, looking for a particular item inside. With an idle air of routine about her, she picked up a small vial and returned to the living room.

From her bag, she retrieved a disposable syringe, still in its wrapper. She'd forgotten it in the pocket of her scrubs while examining a patient earlier in the day. While changing, she'd moved it into her bag, lacking any conscious plan in doing so. Neela ripped open the sterile covering, removed the syringe inside and placed it next to the vial of proxibarbital on the coffee table.

During the preceding year, she'd resorted to self-medication more than once, mostly low doses of oral Dexedrine to stay awake. The vial of barbiturate had found its way into her bathroom cabinet much the same way she'd brought home the syringe, without any premeditation, yet Neela had somehow felt more comfortable with it there, available if needed. She'd read articles about how many doctors resorted to chemical assistance in coping. Why shouldn't she?

She turned on the TV and scanned through the channels, looking for something with pretty images, something that required little mental effort to follow. Landing on a period costume drama, she turned the volume way down and put the remote away. Picking up the vial again, Neela examined the label absent-mindedly, recalling the therapeutic effects of the drug. Essentially, it was euphoria in a bottle, easing anxiety and providing deep sleep.

She mentally calculated a proper dose for her body weight.

-

"Hey buddy, can you spare a smoke?" a throaty, drunken voice asked.

Simon Brenner turned to look and saw a scruffy, disheveled man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, standing by the bar next to him.

"Don't smoke, sorry."

"How about a couple of dollars then? Need me a shot of Wild Turkey to get sorted out."

"I don't do charity either, mate. Get lost."

The bum recoiled momentarily, but didn't give up that easily. Leaning down closer to Brenner's face, he slurred a final plea: "No need to be such an ass, man. Just a dollar or two, hmhmm?"

"Look, fellow, listen real close. Those red spots on your hands seem like erythema to me, and frankly, your breath smells like shit. Both are symptoms of portal hypertension and advanced cirrhosis. So really, I'm doing you a big favour."

The man paled noticeably and immediately took a few steps back. With a inaudibly mumbled apology, the bum moseyed to the door and exited out to the street.

In actuality, the bar was too dimly lit for Simon to have seen any discoloration of the palms, and the smell of alcohol had hidden any possible traces of mercaptans in the man's breath. As Brenner had discovered in the past, properly applied medical jargon was quite effective in getting rid of unwanted company. Taking a swig of his beer, he turned his attention back to the contact list on his mobile phone.

Most of the names were there just waiting to be erased, maybe after sending a brief and blunt text message. _Hi, it was fun, but don't call me again_, or something of the sort. A few of the girls on the list Simon had seen quite recently, and knew he'd need to keep them hungry. It was never a good idea to seem too eager. Janine, the flight stewardess, he knew to be out of town, same as Gina, a pharmaceutical rep. There were other available candidates, but none of them seemed like the right company for the moment.

"Another one?" the bartender asked, pointing to Simon's empty beer glass. Stirred from his thoughts, he nodded and threw a five-dollar bill on the bar.

_You are making excuses_, he thought to himself. Y_ou know who you really want to call over_.

He banished the idea from his mind while receiving his fresh beer. Growing attached simply wasn't something he did. He was an exploiter of opportunities, a player, an master in making others pursue him. He was an expert at his game, and wasn't about to give it up anytime soon. He certainly wasn't about to get soft over a sweet little curry-muncher like _her_.

Then again, she was in a class of her own compared to Simon's usual conquests - intelligent, compassionate, with an endearing vulnerability about her. She'd probably be particularly vulnerable now, after the day's tragic events. That was an angle he could certainly use, assuming the role of the reformed rogue, consoling her in her grief.

He pocketed his cell phone and took a sip of his drink, his mind set now. He'd focus on this one for a while yet.


	2. Chapter 2

It was obviously a dream, but Neela did not care. She stood in the middle of the Broadway in Southall, by the old flower market, enjoying the sun shining from a cloudless sky. A festival was in progress; all around her Neela could see faces familiar to her enjoying themselves, eating food and listening to music. Some of them Neela thought she'd forgotten, faces of people she hadn't seen in ages, yet some belonged to more recent friends, ones she wouldn't normally have associated with London.

Then the sounds of the street party were interrupted by another familiar, yet altogether more unpleasant noise. The scene began to vanish, even though Neela tried desperately to hold onto it, to stay even one minute longer in its comfort. Even when she was already mentally awake, she chose to lie down with her eyes closed, savoring the memory of the dream, trying to ignore her cell phone.

Finally, she reached out with her hand and picked up the phone to see who it was. The caller id only indicated it was coming through the County switchboard. For a short moment Neela considered not answering, but her conscientious nature quickly took over.

"Hello?" she said groggily, trying to inject a bit of anger into her voice.

"Neela, thank God I reached you," a clearly distressed voice said. "It's Morris."

"Archie? What is it?" She'd taken a quick glance at the clock on her DVD player. It was almost two in the morning.

"Please, don't hang up," Morris said. "There's been a gas explosion at a late night food court downtown."

Neela groaned, already sitting up on the sofa. Then, a thought occurred to her: she shouldn't have been receiving this call from Morris, but from the surgical attending on duty.

"Do they need me upstairs? Has Crenshaw…" Neela began.

"No, this isn't for surgery. I need you down here in the ER!"

"Archie, you can't just…"

"Neela, we're down to me and Gates over here, with two fresh interns who can barely do sutures. We've got nobody on-call. Most of the critical cases are being diverted to Mercy and Northwestern, but there's gonna be plenty of spillover for us."

"Have you checked with everybody else?"

"Wexler's still on her diving trip, and Abby's injured. Brenner says he's been out drinking, so I can't let him near patients."

"Morris, I'll…"

"Neela, please," Morris interrupted her. "We are way beyond the end of the rope here. I wouldn't be asking you if we weren't."

Sighing, Neela bit her lip and tried to come up with an excuse for not going, even though she knew she couldn't refuse. It wasn't in her character to turn down a request like this simply because it was inconvenient. There were people in need of her skills out there, and she had to do what she could for them.

"Archie, listen. I'll be there as soon as I can," Neela said. "I don't know how fast I can get a taxi at this hour…"

"Don't worry about that," Morris said. "I've got Frank on the other phone talking to an old buddy in the PD. There will be a patrol car to pick you up outside your house in a few minutes."

"That's good," Neela said wearily. "Look, I have to go get ready, see you in a bit, okay?"

"Okay… and… thanks," Morris said before hanging up.

Standing up and stretching her muscles, Neela turned off the TV and went to the bathroom. There wasn't time to shower, so she simply threw a handful of water over her face. Then she made her way to the wardrobe cabinet and changed into the first set of clean clothes she could find. She was almost finished dressing when she heard an emergency siren cycle once down on the street below.

Walking to the apartment door, she glimpsed the syringe and vial on the living room coffee table, still unused. Neela quickly snatched them up and shoved them into a nearby dresser drawer. It was unlikely that anyone would pop in during her absence, but she still felt uncomfortable leaving the items in plain sight. She suddenly found herself unsettled by having the barbiturate in her apartment in the first place.

Outside, the cop car produced another impatient wail. Neela quickly threw on her overcoat, exited her apartment and raced down the stairs.

-

What Morris had called 'spillover' earlier in the night turned out to be a flood. In the first hour after Neela's arrival, County had received eight patients between the three available doctors. Everyone had some degree of burns or lacerations from flying glass, and four had severe penetrating trauma. For the first two hours, they were forced to focus only on the worst cases, having to ignore anyone who was even borderline stable.

For several hours, the ER ran like a gory production line. As soon as one patient had been stabilised, another one was rolled into the trauma room, with just enough time in between to change into new gloves and sterile coats. Sam was mostly in charge of triage, only disturbing the doctors for advice when absolutely necessary.

As all crises, this one too eventually came to an end. After four a'clock, the ambulances stopped coming, and most of the people still to be treated only had superficial wounds. At half past six, the ICU signed off on Neela's last critically injured patient, a middle-aged woman who'd arrived to the ER with a two-foot section of windowpane through her thigh.

She was finishing up with her charting when she saw Morris walk up to her. The man seemed just as exhausted as she was, throwing her a tired smile as he stood to lean against the opposite side of the admit desk.

"Thanks," Morris said. "Without you here, I don't know what we'd have done."

"Don't mention it," Neela said. "It actually felt pretty good to work in green scrubs for a change."

"Still, I put you in a spot. I owe you a big one."

"You could consider it a repaid debt," Neela said, eliciting a surprised look from Morris.

"What debt?"

"From when we were held hostage in trauma two by that gunman."

Morris raised his eyebrows, looking puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I remember how you talked that man down," Neela said. "If you hadn't kept your nerve, the situation could have ended much worse than it did. I never thanked you for that."

Morris looked away and humbly waved his hand in front of him. Neela expected him to fall back on his usual shtick, to throw a feeble joke or shrug off her gratitude with a sarcastic comeback, but instead a pained look crossed his face, and he said: "I can't really say I feel what I did was anything heroic."

"Don't sell yourself short, Archie. At one point I held little hope of either of us getting out of that room alive," Neela said, placing her hand on his.

"You know, I thought you were one of the people who thought of me as a complete jackass," Morris said.

"Not so long ago, you _were_ a complete jackass," Neela said with an impish smile. "But not anymore. Not complete, at least."

They shared a weary laugh. Neela was putting away the final completed chart when a strange notion occurred to her. Now that Pratt was gone, Morris was the person in the hospital she'd known the longest, apart from Abby. _There's a scary thought_, she mused in her head.

"That means a lot," Morris said, again lapsing to sincerity. "You know, we both lost a friend yesterday."

Neela nodded, replying in a barely audible whisper: "Yeah."

"It seems we're both running short of them around here. So what I'm saying is, if you ever want to get together, just to talk or whatever…"

"I'd like that."

Neela walked around the desk and was heading towards the doctor's lounge when Morris called after her again.

"Hey, Neela?" he said. "You still interested in hockey?"

"That ortho-surgical match probably turned me off from the idea of playing it for good."

"There's a pre-season match at the United Center on the twenty-third," Morris said. "The 'Hawks and the Blues. Greg and me were supposed to go together, but…"

Neela's smile crumbled. She hadn't really considered that Morris, as a fellow ER attending, had in some ways been closer to Pratt than she ever had. The loss would leave a bigger gap in his life than in hers.

"I'll have to check my schedule. I'll let you know," she said.

"Great," Morris replied.

"You know, screw my schedule," Neela said, suddenly turning back to Morris. "I can get it cleared, Crenshaw owes me."

"Okay, then. It's a date," Morris said, a wide smile suddenly on his face. "You know, as friends," he seemed to feel necessary to add.


	3. Chapter 3

Methods of Control

It was a cool morning, with a veil of grey mist floating in the air. A weak drizzle fell down on Simon Brenner's shoulders as he turned the corner into the ambulance bay of County General. He was still slightly hung over but estimated his blood alcohol to be low enough to legally practice medicine. It wasn't his shift, but he assumed the ER still could use some help. He wasn't doing it out of any charitable impulse, but to play the role of a good guy.

He'd spent the night with a young IT professional he'd met in the bar. She'd been a fairly unimpressive redhead, but Simon's standards hadn't been at their peak at that time. They'd chatted for a while, and she'd obviously been impressed by finding out he was a medical professional. The accent had helped. One thing had led to another, and he'd found himself at her apartment in Streeterville. The sex had been good, if not altogether unforgettable, and he'd even had a chance to grab a few hours of sleep.

Passing the ball court, he suddenly saw Neela walking out through the sliding doors. She looked tired and had little makeup on, suggesting to Simon that she'd been summoned to help out through the mass casualty. He immediately deviated from his path to attract her attention.

"Neela!" he cried out. "Hey, fancy seeing you here."

Neela slowed her trot and stopped, giving Simon an indifferent stare.

"Simon," Neela said. "What are you doing here?"

"Just decided to stop by and see if I could help," Simon said. "It's a shame I couldn't get here earlier."

"We managed," Neela said, beginning to continue on her way.

"Hey, hold it," Simon called out. "I actually wanted to have a word with you."

Shrugging, Neela turned to face him and said: "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

"You know, us," Simon said, putting on a bit of his shy guy act. "I thought we might carry on from where we left off."

Neela rolled her eyes, and something in her body language made Simon uneasy. She gave her a casual, self-confident smile that he took as a warning sign.

"Right," she said, nodding. "Where did we leave off, exactly?"

Simon shrugged his shoulders. "I thought we made a connection, don't you?"

She laughed softly. Suddenly, Simon Brenner felt a shiver running down his spine.

"No offence, Simon, but…"

"But what?"

"The fact that we made out doesn't mean we should have," Neela said. "I know, you said that I needed to get laid, and that may have been true, but…"

This was definitely sending cold shivers down Simon's spine. "Come on, Neela. Are you saying you don't want to go further with what we have between us?"

"Simon, I'm not saying I didn't find what we shared enjoyable. What I am saying that I don't feel any need to repeat the experience."

"Come on. I want to at least give this a try."

"I don't really give a tinker's toss about what you want."

"Ouch. That's rather cold."

"I tried polite. Didn't seem to work," Neela said, adjusting the the shoulder strap of her bag. "Besides, I'm much too tired right now for niceties."

"Why the change of heart?" Simon asked, now. "You seemed quite eager yesterday."

"You were there, you were easy. You were practically pushing yourself onto me, so I jumped the opportunity. But on the long term, there's simply no place for you at my flower festival."

Simon didn't get the reference, but understood the intent. Neela's posture and tone of voice made it patently clear. Normally, this would have been the point for him to back down gracefully, cut his losses and maybe leave the door ajar between them. That was the way pros played the game, but there was something Simon felt in Neela's presence that reduced him into a rank amateur.

"So, you think you can just have your fun and then toss me aside like some toyboy?" he said. It was a transparent appeal to her sense of shame, and Simon regretted voicing it before he'd finished the sentence.

"Shut up," Neela said. "I think we both got what exactly what we wanted out of each other."

"What if I want more?" Simon asked.

"Then excuse me if I'm repeating myself, but I don't give a damn. You caught me at a weak moment, and what we did is never going to happen again." Neela turned to leave. "Good bye, Simon."

Simon stood speechless, looking at her go. There was no angle to play anymore. The rejection had been definite, not made in a fit of emotion but with calm conviction. Simon Brenner, for the first time in his life, began to feel that he'd been used.

-

She stopped by a deli on her way home to pick up a sandwich, which she wolfed down during the El ride. When Neela finally reached her apartment, the light drizzle had turned into a full-blown rainstorm. Her home was still a mess, exactly as she had left it. Even the TV was still on with the sound turned down. Sitting down on the sofa, she reached for the remote and turned it off.

Time for sleep, she thought, making herself comfortable. The bedroom window faced the fire escape, and whenever it rained heavily the raindrops falling on them produced a merciless cacophony. A nap on the living room couch would have to do for now.

Then, the cell phone interrupted her rest once again. It was still in her bag, but the muffled ringtone was still too loud to ignore. Shoving her hand inside to grab it, she slammed the phone against her ear.

"You have ten seconds to make your case before I hang up," she said, eyes still closed.

"Well, hello to you too, Neela," a familiar, raspy voice said on the other end.

"Ray?"


	4. Chapter 4

"I saw the late news last night, and again this morning," Ray said on the phone. "They said that a County doctor had been killed in that ambulance explosion but didn't have any names."

Neela sat up and took a deep calming breath before answering. "It was Pratt."

There was a long silence, after which Ray said: "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Neela said. "We did everything we could but… his injuries were too severe. Abby was hurt as well, but she's going to be fine."

Neela recounted the events of the last twenty-four hours: everything she knew of Pratt's accident, a summary of the mass casualty, and a short mention of Dubenko's departure. She left out what had happened with Brenner. It took some time even though she was trying to be brief. Ray listened quietly, occasionally providing a reassuring verbal nod.

"For a moment I was afraid it might have been you in that ambulance," Ray said when he finally got a word in. "Just a crazy thought. What business would a surgeon have had in there?"

Neela didn't say anything for a moment. It felt good to hear that he still cared, after a long time of little contact between the two. A whole year with just two letters and an occasional short email. A get-well card with a bandaged Snoopy on the front, sent by Ray soon after Neela had been trampled.

"How've you been, Ray?" Neela asked. "I haven't heard from you in a while."

It felt selfish to change the subject away from Pratt's death but Neela didn't wish to dwell on it either. She wanted to hear about Ray, what was going on in his life, and to talk to someone she was comfortable confiding in.

"I'm doing fine," Ray said. "I'm working again."

"Really, what with?"

"I've been taking shifts at the PMR clinic. Made it my new residency, in fact."

In his emails, he had mentioned about how finding work in emergency medicine had been tough. Hospitals were proving quite liability-conscious with applicants who had disabilities, and Ray had been considering other fields.

"That sounds great," Neela said. "You enjoying physiatrics?"

"I'm uniquely qualified," Ray said. "It's clichéd , I know, but people really accept treatment better when you can relate with them. It's helped me to put things in proper perspective as well."

"Tell me."

"Last week I treated a high school kid who crushed her C5 vertebra falling off a cheerleading pyramid. Permanent quadraplegia. I've had it easy. Hell, I did a five-mile run yesterday."

Just imagining it made Neela smile. Ray Barnett, running. There was an achievement, especially considering that his earlier exercise regime consisted of partying three nights a week and doing push-ups in his bed.

"Sounds like your life is going a lot better than mine at the moment," Neela said. She didn't mean it as a veiled plea for sympathy, but that's how Ray responded.

"I'm truly sorry for everything that's happened over there," he said. "I wish I knew a way to help you."

"Yeah, well, things can only go up, right?" Neela said.

"Sounds like the Neela I know," Ray said, and Neela sensed from his tone that this wasn't a whole-hearted encouragement.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Ahh, forget it. Let's leave for another day."

"With the current pace, the next time I hear your voice might be two years from now," Neela said. "What did you mean by 'the Neela you know'?"

"I just meant that you tend to wait and see a bit too much," Ray replied. "Sometimes you should push things along more."

"You think I don't?"

"Do you want the honest or polite answer?"

It unnerved Neela that Ray even offered her the option.

"When I want you to start treating me like a piece of porcelain, I'll say so."

"Okay, then," Ray said, and Neela could detect reluctance in his long exhale. "Your worst problem is that you rarely act, just respond. You don't make choices until circumstances force you to."

"I don't think that's really fair-"

"I'm calling it as I see it. You may want to disagree, but consider what I'm trying to say. When have you ever made a decision without something or someone pushing you?"

She knew Ray had a point. It was a pattern she'd fallen into a long time ago. She'd even become a doctor because of a reckless childhood proclamation that her parents had latched onto and pressured her to follow through on. Only much later had she come to realise the talent and inclination she had for the job.

"You're saying that I am too eager to conform?"

"What I'm saying is that you're not so much motivated by what you want, but by what you think others expect of you."

"You know, you're absolutely right," Neela said. "It just seems that whenever I try to change my life, I end up hurting those I care about. Or find myself behind the till at the Jumbo-Mart."

The last statement had been an attempt at levity, but there was too much pain behind it for it to really come out as funny.

"Neela, don't..." Ray said.

"I just see it repeated over and over again. I find myself saved from bad choices by people wiser than me. By Abby, by my parents, by Lucien, even by you."

"Listen, Neela, take this from someone who's had his share of bad breaks. You can't let shit keep you down. You need to decide what you want out of your life and figure out how to get there."

"I don't seem to be very good at that," Neela said, again sounding more sullen than she'd intended.

"So, you've made mistakes, big deal," Ray said. "And then you've had things happen you had no control over. But if you keep at it, in the end, you'll either learn to make better choices or get lucky."

"You know, that reminds me of something you told me once."

"And what is that?"

"You said: 'Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'."

She heard Ray chuckling on the other end of the line before he replied. "That's not really my own registered trademark folksy wisdom. I stole it from John Lennon."

"But doesn't it mean that whatever your choices, life has a way of getting to you?"

"I think it just means you can't usually predict the end result of you actions. It shouldn't be a prescription for apathy."

Despite the gulf of time and distance that had grown between them, Ray still knew Neela well enough to tell her what she needed to hear instead of what she wanted to hear, to both hurt and comfort her with the same words. She missed him.

"You know, Ray, I have a few unspent holidays. I'd probably be able to fit them sometime in October."

"And you're telling me this because…?"

Neela bit her lip. Ray wasn't making this easy.

"I thought I might come and visit. I mean, if it's okay by you."

There was a long silence before Ray answered. "The convention circuit begins around that time. I'm not sure if I'll be here."

"Should I take that as a 'no'?" Neela asked. "You're still forbidding me from coming?"

"When did I forbid you from coming to see me?" Ray asked.

"The last time we saw face to face. Right after your accident. Right before mine."

Neela felt a tinge of guilt throwing the accusation at him. Ray had been at a low point at the time and said a lot of things he'd later admitted regretting in his letters to her. It still bothered Neela that he couldn't remember his own words.

"I didn't mean it like that," Ray finally said. "I didn't mean to stop you from coming."

"Then what did you mean?" Neela asked. "I need you to explain to me what you meant by that 'don't'."

"I didn't want you to visit me out of obligation or guilt," Ray explained. "I know you'd have run over here in a heartbeat simply because you felt it was something you ought to do."

"I care about you, you know that. You should know me well enough. Isn't that a good enough reason?"

"Not for me."

There was an unexpectedly heavy dose of bitterness in those three words.

"Look, Ray, I'm not coming to Baton Rouge if you don't want me to."

"The question isn't what I want, Neela," Ray said, his voice now making it clear he was upset. "If you choose to come over, you must be the one to want it."

The word 'want' kept on echoing in her ears. Ray was emphasizing it like some sort of mantra. _Want_. Not just any kind of want. _Desire_.

Neela took a deep breath through the nose and exhaled through the mouth. One of the Lucien's yoga techniques. What she was about to say she had to deliver calmly, without sounding bitter or resentful.

"When we last met," she began, "I was left with the impression that any chance of us getting together was gone. I realise you didn't mean a lot of the things you said in that hospital room, but that was one of the things you seemed quite settled on."

"I know."

"And now, if I'm hearing you right, you're telling me that's all different?"

"Look, what I was trying to tell you that day was that loving you simply hurts too much," Ray said. "Waiting for you to make up your mind, holding the door open while you think things over… that hasn't changed with you, has it?"

-

Tremendously sorry for the slow update, especially considering the story was basically complete when I posted chapter 3. I just wasn't happy with the original version of this phone conversation, and had to rewrite it. More soon. -NV


End file.
